


The Little Things

by ladyofdragons



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdragons/pseuds/ladyofdragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift's gotten himself into some trouble and Ratchet's showing a little favoritism. The medic's not the only one taking care here though. Simple fluff drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/gifts).



> No beta, just a quick little drabble written for HK who's spent the last few days in the hospital. Hopefully it's a bit of a picker-upper!

It'd been another dead end on their quest, another ill-begotten plan of Rodimus' that had angered the planet's natives and put far too many mechs in his medibay than Ratchet cared to see. The flurry of activity had continued for hours, the entire medical staff doing triage and then treating each case by priority. Both First Aid and Ambulon took his usual grumpiness in stride, even if it flared a little more prickly than usual, and judging by his grumbling the old medic planned to lay that blame at Rodimus' footplates in the most vividly articulate way possible when the time came.

The captain himself had sustained no injuries, none worth taking up space in Ratchet's medibay at any rate. He had come by to check on his crew though, his third-in-command in particular, and Ratchet had shooed Rodimus out so fast it made everyone blink.

Once the chaos had died down, the clatter and noise and sounds of discomfort, there was a ping from the nurse's call button in the quarantine room. First Aid looked up, turning that direction but eyeing Ratchet who had taken up a weary post at the fabrication unit, queuing up repair orders. Ratchet waved him off though, moving to answer the call himself.

As the second set of paired doors to the quarantine room whispered shut the patient on the medislab looked up. 

"Long day?" Drift said, an attempt, however bad, at making light of the situation.

"Too long. What do you need?" Ratchet said gruffly on approach. A little too gruffly, and his mouth worked into a slightly sheepish shape for a moment.

"I was going to ask you that actually. Two shifts already, not working on a third are you?" 

Ratchet crossed his arms over his chestplate and pointedly ignored his fuel reserve status. "Think there's some confusion here over who's the patient and who's the doctor. Need I go over this diagnostic to remind you?"

Drift laughed, that light chuff of air that meant he was covering something, laughing it off. "Pretty smooth move right? Finding that instability in the ridgeline before anyone else could so I alone tumbled into that ravine." And into...whatever that stuff was. Some liquid that likely had no right calling itself water given the apparent toxicity. And smelly. Wooow had it been smelly.

" _Smooth_ isn't the word I'd use." Ratchet had used plenty of other words from his extensive vocabulary of red language when they had brought Drift on board. Thankfully most of the swordmech's other injuries were blunt force trauma so shuffling him into the decontamination unit right away hadn't been much of an issue.

"Soooo uh, what's the prognosis?" Drift asked, sounding almost as cool and relaxed as he felt.

"Yours? You're fine. Decon did the trick. Another hour on medical grade tap and a good dent puller and you'll be good to go." 

"Then...why am I still in isolation?" Drift looked confused, propping up on an elbow to look out the heavy-paned window at the sea of other recovering mechs and a certain other medic who suddenly pretended to be doing something _other_ than watching them.

Ratchet's hands clutched at the side of bed, wishing for a datapad to fill them with, so instead he started checking all the leads and attachments for the medical energon feeds that were boosting Drift's auto repair. 

"I know you like it quiet," the medic said finally, sounding more casual than he really felt.

A moment, and then two, ticked by as that sank into Drift's processor, then the flutter of a smile spread over his faceplates. "Don't have to do that..." he said quietly, "I'll take a standard med berth like everyone else." 

Those were the self-effacing words but Ratchet knew that tone, gratitude and even surprise. 

"Too much work," he said as he leaned over to check the lead at Drift's shoulder joint, the red pauldron that had been crumbled into an indiscernible shape now mending the minor dents. "Gonna have to live with staying here till you're discharged."

And Drift was silent, as if he was studying the medic, seeing through Ratchet's ploy to let him stay in the privacy of the quarantine room without guilt. Quiet for so long that Ratchet looked over, concerned, and that's when Drift's free hand found his collarplate, curling over the edge with a tug as the swordmech pressed his mouth to Ratchet's in a silent thank you.

The deep lines of Ratchet's face had smoothed once he pulled away, the tight way he held his shoulders slackening, optics torn between question and command.

"Don't waste your time, kid." Not with this old mech.

"Not young anymore, Ratch." 

Drift's hand hadn't let go, fingers still curled over the collarplate, fingertips just brushing the neck cables there. It would've brought on a shiver if Ratchet had been worse at keeping his composure. He could feel the pull though, as if Drift's hand weighed ten times what it should, drawing him downward towards that face that seemed so open and offering.

"I don't kiss my patients."

Drift's mouth quirked into half a smile that begged to be more. "Well, you better discharge me then."


End file.
